


Five Years of Thursdays

by Xochiquetzl



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: Backstory, F/F, Polyamory, Romance, be gay do crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27552559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xochiquetzl/pseuds/Xochiquetzl
Summary: Sometimes, your partner makes a mistake.
Relationships: Lou Miller/Debbie Ocean
Comments: 13
Kudos: 38
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Five Years of Thursdays

**Author's Note:**

  * For [olympvs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/olympvs/gifts).



TEN YEARS AGO

Thursdays were Debbie’s date night with Claude. Lou stretched out on the red sectional sofa and opened a package of Tim Tams—dark chocolate. The room was dark and her feet were in cozy slippers, and the sound of traffic droned under the television. 

Ordinarily, Lou enjoyed Thursdays. Thursday was the saltiness of Vegemite, the sweetness of Tim Tams, the tart mouthful of wine. That and watching Judge Judy or something equally trashy. Oh, sure, she should be seething with jealousy or something, but really, who had time to be so conventional and prosaic? Claude was all right if you were into that sort of thing—“that sort of thing” being a man, which wasn’t Lou’s thing but she wasn’t here to judge—and Lou liked the money Debbie brought in working with Claude. Really, the bingo hall ran like clockwork—boring but reliable clockwork—and Lou didn’t blame Debbie for looking for a thrill. 

Which, really, was all that it was. Thrill-seeking. Debbie was coming home full of NRE—that’s “New Relationship Energy,” for the uninitiated—and… yeah. That sort of thing passed. And Debbie wanted a big score of her own. Well, she could go get one; Lou was Debbie’s partner, not her owner. 

This Thursday, however, Lou was bored. Judge Judy was a rerun, and she started flipping channels and sighed. 

Claude was all right if you were into that, but Lou hoped she wasn’t about to obtain a co-spouse. On the one hand, apparently he could bring in the cash, so at least there was that going for him. And Debbie said he was an excellent cook. On the other, well. Lou didn’t want him in the house. It was one of the rules. Not under our roof; that’s our space. It would take some serious negotiation, at the very least. 

It wasn’t a large apartment. 

No sense in borrowing trouble. This thing with Claude would blow over. All couples had their ups and downs. All couples had their differences. Debbie didn’t like Vegemite. Lou didn’t like dick. No big deal. 

She changed the channel and opened a bottle of wine. 

***

FIVE YEARS AGO

Now every night was a Thursday, and Thursday’s charm was long gone. Five years of Thursdays would do that to a day. 

Lou looked at the red sectional sofa with a dissatisfied eye. Now the sounds of traffic just kept her awake, or maybe that was just the emptiness of her bed. 

She supposed that she could just date someone else. Debbie wouldn’t expect her to wait like some dutiful homemaker. The thing was, she’d tried that—dating, that is—and none of them were Debbie. They were fun, some of them could do small cons, but none of them was a partner. 

Claude Becker was the King of the Douchebags. Someone should take him out. Not her, because both of them in jail wouldn’t do anyone any good, but surely he’d cross the wrong person some day, and Lou would laugh quietly from a great distance. 

Besides, Debbie and Claude had been together for years. What if Debbie actually still had feelings for the sleazy wanker? Well. Feelings that weren’t hate, of course. Better to not take risks. Lou was always the one who didn’t want to take risks. 

The apartment was a reminder—Debbie’s photos, Debbie’s clothes, furniture she’d bought with Debbie. Furniture Debbie had replaced _her_ furniture with, and how annoying was _that_? And yet she missed it. Honestly, it felt some kind of sick shrine. It still smelled like Debbie, for longer than it should have. 

It felt like Thursday. In a bad way. 

Lou sold the apartment and bought a club. She wouldn’t exactly say she’d gone straight—insert gay joke about never going straight here—but she wasn’t doing Bingo or Roulette any more. It was just a club. Okay, she watered the vodka, but who didn’t? 

When Debbie got home, maybe they’d renegotiate a “no men” agreement. No. That was stupid. She liked men, she just didn’t enjoy sleeping with them. On the other hand, _Claude Becker_. New rule: No Claude Beckers. 

***

A FEW WEEKS AGO

Lou couldn’t help it. She probably should have checked in before kissing Debbie, but… too late. She was still wearing the dress she’d seen her in last, which she supposed made sense. Her hair smelled like hotel shampoo. 

“Hey, hey, take it easy. Been in the slammer.”

“I thought you’d just changed your number.” 

Debbie smirked, and then it was like nothing had changed. She took Debbie back to the theater. 

***

Debbie revealed, over Chinese takeout, that she’d been to see Claude Fucking Becker. She looked lovely in her gallery clothes, with her white silk jacket. Lou could smell Debbie’s shampoo—not the hotel stuff, but her actual regular brand—mixed with the smell of sweet and savory and the scent of sex on her hands. 

Lou paused over her Orange Beef. “He saw you?”

“Oh, yeah.” Debbie was calmer than she should have been, which was… mildly alarming. 

Lou asked the obvious question. “Why would you do something like that?”

Debbie had her most innocent face on when she said, “Closure?”

“Bullshit.” Sometimes your partner makes a mistake. This felt like one of those times. 

Debbie pushed a toothbrush-shiv across the small card table, incongruous with her gallery finery. 

“Jesus. Did you…” Lou made stabbing motions with the shiv, like the shower scene in Psycho. 

“Just a button.” Debbie slid the button across the table.

Lou couldn’t help laughing. 

***

There was a room for Debbie in the theater. Not that Debbie used it. It was full of Debbie’s old things from the apartment, but Debbie didn’t live there anymore. 

Debbie’s first night back was simultaneously like she’d never left and like neither of them had gotten any in five years. Who knew prison was an aphrodisiac? One Lou fervently hoped the two of them would avoid henceforth. 

She was back, beautiful and brilliant and irritating, and had she mentioned _brilliant_? And the two of them were doing an actual job, not fucking bingo. And discussing jobs in restaurants, but who cared? She was in a restaurant with her partner. 

“You know what, I have run this thing a thousand times. Every time I got caught, I fixed it. And in three years, I wasn’t getting caught anymore. By the time I was paroled, it was running like clockwork, perfectly. And you were there with me, every step of the way.”

“Oh, honey, is this a proposal?” 

“Baby, I don’t have a diamond yet. Come on. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life watering down well vodka? because it’s really kind of a waste. Come on, take a bite. Just take a bite.”

“You’re really irritating.”

“Open!” 

The banter was better than a romantic proposal would have been. 

Lou didn’t want to spend the rest of her life watering down vodka. She wanted to spend the rest of her life with Debbie. Beautiful, funny, infuriating Debbie. Her partner. 

She took a bite. It was tasty, some kind of savory potato… something. 

If this worked and they didn’t end up in prison, Lou might propose herself. Or she could propose in prison, she supposed. It worked on Orange is the New Black. 

They had a plan; they had a crew—an awesome all-woman crew, and when had Debbie gone all separatist? okay, that was a joke—and this might even… work.

***

As soon as Lou saw Becker’s name on the pink and blue flowers of the seating chart, her stomach twisted and she could feel her molars grind. Claude Becker. _Always_ Claude Fucking Becker. Why was it always Claude Becker?

Sometimes your partner makes a mistake. And sometimes, your partner makes the same mistake, over and over again. 

She stormed out the door and across the street, to where Debbie was staring at the water. “Hey. We need to talk. You’d better tell me this is not what I think it is.”

“What?”

“Claude Becker.”

“I didn’t do that.” Debbie’s face was a perfect mask of innocence, which didn’t help her case one bit. 

“I’m not a croupier, okay? Or a tourist with a bucket of quarters. Don’t con me. You do not run a job inside a job!”

Debbie’s serenity was infuriating. “It’s not going to matter.”

“We are going to get caught!”

“Stop it. We’re not.” Still calm. Still not taking this seriously. 

Was she jealous? Was this some kind of…

No. She was afraid and angry and felt a little betrayed. Sure, Debbie had gotten her on board with sixteen point five million dollars—which was admittedly nice—and then it turned out to be about fucking over Claude Fucking Becker. Sometimes your partner is really, really into making the same mistake repeatedly. 

They were all going to prison. 

“Why do you do this? Why can’t you just do a job? Why does there always have to be an asterisk?”

Debbie didn’t have an answer for that, just a little smirk. A smirk and the sound of the ocean kissing the beach in waves, and the scent of brine. 

Clearly, Lou needed to escalate. “You frame him, I walk.”

“Stop it.”

Lou said, “This is just like last time,” and walked away. 

The serene, innocent mask fell as Debbie blocked her path. “Lou. _Lou_. _He sent me to jail._ You have no idea what that’s like.”

No. No, she didn’t, and she couldn’t imagine… and she didn’t want to find out. “Yeah, well, he’s going do it again.”

“No, he’s not. He’s not.” 

It all came down to whether she trusted Debbie. Trust Debbie to be honest and forthright and always tell the truth and be a good little girl scout? Never. But trust Debbie to do right by her, stand by her, not fuck her over like she’d been fucked over?

 _That_ she could do.

***

Lou had to admit it. The actual fucking over of Claude Fucking Becker was elegant and precise and… nice. Someone had to be a suspect, and it honestly couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. 

It turned out that she had a diamond now, and so did Debbie. Did they really want to do something as prosaic and conventional as get married? Could marriage possibly be as romantic and intimate as crime? Would they have a wedding? Would they become exclusive after all these years and settle down? Hardly. 

And why on earth would they do something as suspicious as throw a large social event and invite their crew? No, no. Unless Debbie wanted to do the thing… 

Okay, okay, it had a certain charm. She’d consider it. Maybe. After her bike trip down Highway One. In the meantime, they were what they’d been for years: partners. 

Forever. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Niqaeli for the beta!


End file.
